


Just what the doctor ordered

by threebatchproblem



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, It could be read as slash or not, M/M, Male Friendship, Male Slash, Pre-Slash, Slash, either way :), ill!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 15:06:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threebatchproblem/pseuds/threebatchproblem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'JOHN!' Sherlock yelled again, ignoring the raw feeling in his throat.<br/>'I'm coming, I'm coming, what's wrong?' A worried looking John skidded into Sherlock's room, rubbing his eyes, still half asleep, wearing only an old army shirt and his boxers.<br/>'I need another blanket.' Sherlock responded.<br/>It took a moment for John to reply, his brain sluggish from recent sleep.<br/>'You woke me up and called me down here for... a blanket? Sherlock, do you have any idea what time it-'<br/>'I'm ill.' announced Sherlock simply.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just what the doctor ordered

**Author's Note:**

> My first official fic I guess. Beta'd by the lovely eat_hats, thank you! :)

John's phone buzzed against his thigh. He reached for it, already anticipating another 'Bored!' or a similar message from his flatmate. He opened it, sighing, confirming his assumption, and pocketed the phone without replying, instead opting to press the buzzer to let his next patient know he was ready.

Sherlock was ill. Unfortunately for John an ill Sherlock meant a bored Sherlock, and it seemed he had put John in charge of solving this. Although under strict instructions to stay in bed, it was only a matter of time before Sherlock decided that harassing John, (a doctor, who knew best, as pointed out several times) was the better option.

John forced a smile to form across his face, trying to avoid physically sighing at the realisation of yet another attention seeking, cold ridden patient entering the room. The seemingly healthy, middle aged man forced a cough, before smiling weakly and sitting down in the chair opposite Dr Watson. This was going to be a long day.

***

Sherlock let out a loud, self-pitying sigh as he wrapped the blankets impossibly tighter around his bony frame. Stupid body, so unreliable. John got ill. Lestrade got ill. Normal people got ill, but Sherlock Holmes did not get ill.  
Because being ill meant, (under the care of John) no crime scenes, no experiments, and consequently, no fun.  
Sherlock rolled over, reaching for his phone yet again and began to type.  
He grabbed on to the sheets, phone still in hand, and heaved himself off the bed, clearly annoyed at the preposterous thought of having to make his own tea.

***

John ignored the buzz in his pocket for the umpteenth time and saw that his final patient, (whose bald head had nearly blinded John as he’d walked in) was given the correct (unnecessary, really, you could get similar stuff at the supermarket) prescription. As the door clicked shut he gave in, deciding he'd better check his phone after all, because by now Sherlock could have burnt down the entire flat. Not that Sherlock would actually let him know of that happening anyway.  
'The bald man’s illness could just be an allergy, but with him having prolonged pain around the eyes opposed to itchiness, more likely Sinusitis.'  
'Yes Sherlock, I am actually a qualified doctor you know.' was his response, purposely avoiding the usual amazement or questioning. The deduction had been right of course.  
John didn't even want to know how he’d figured that one out. His room being bugged seemed the most plausible explanation, but that was more Mycroft's style than Sherlock's. It was probably the rate at which his previous texts had been sent, or the way he'd worn his hair this morning. He let out an exasperated sigh and shrugged it off.

***

The door to the flat swung open, signifying John's return.  
'Did you bring the milk?' Sherlock asked, not bothering to look up from his position on the sofa.  
'Milk? You didn't ask for milk? Besides the point anyway, why are you not in bed? I specifically told you not to move.' John answered, walking over to turn off the telly (really, this is what Sherlock had resorted to) and stared pointedly at Sherlock.  
'Bed's boring' stated Sherlock simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. (To him, it was.)  
John refused to dignify that with an answer and instead made his way into the kitchen to set about making some tea.  
'Did you eat anything today?'  
'Yep, had some of that new soup you bought.'  
John didn't even need to turn round to answer 'Liar.' and promptly got out the bread and jam to make toast to accompany their tea.

***

'JOHN!' Sherlock yelled again, ignoring the raw feeling in his throat.  
'I'm coming, I'm coming, what's wrong?' A worried looking John skidded into Sherlock's room, rubbing his eyes, still half asleep, wearing only an old army shirt and his boxers.  
'I need another blanket.' Sherlock responded.  
It took a moment for John to reply, his brain sluggish from recent sleep.  
'You woke me up and called me down here for... a blanket? Sherlock, do you have any idea what time it-'  
'I'm ill.' announced Sherlock simply.  
'Oh for god's sake.' John continued mumbling his annoyance as he dragged his feet through the flat to find another blanket.  
He quickly returned, not only with the blanket but also an extra pillow.  
'I thought I might as well stay down here now, seen as you'll no doubt be calling me for something else soon.' he said in way of an explanation.  
'There's no point in us both being sick, John.'  
'Sherlock, we share a flat. I was exposed to your germs before you even started showing symptoms, I'm sure I'll be fine.'  
Sherlock seemed to accept this as a good enough reason and rolled over to allow for a John sized space of bed to be cleared.  
Though John had actually been intending to sleep on the sofa rather than sharing his flat mate's bed, (that's what he told himself, but the lack of another blanket or quilt to cover him suggested other wise), he accepted the offer and climbed in next to Sherlock.  
'I'm cold John.' Sherlock stated again.  
'Oh, right, blanket, sorry.' He fumbled around for said blanket, before wrapping it tightly around the other man's shoulders.  
'Still cold.' he sulked.  
'Well what do you want me to do?!' John questioned, a little too aggressively.  
'Cuddle.' came the reply.  
John wasn't sure if he'd heard that correctly. It seemed like the last thing Sherlock would usually want to do, he wasn't really one for physical contact, but given the circumstances... Plus, he was right, John's body could provide a lot more heat than another blanket could (and Sherlock was now clinging on to every blanket they owned anyway).  
So, without further thought, John proceeded to open out his arms, allowing the shivering consulting detective to shuffle backwards into them.  
Sherlock rested his head against the smaller man's chest, burying into the warmth. The illness had made him feel oddly tired (oddly for Sherlock, anyway) and he soon fell asleep to the strong, reassuring sound of John's heart beating against his ear. John fell asleep soon after, still exhausted from his previous disrupted dreams. The two stayed like this for some time, Sherlock nestled comfortably in John's arms and a bundle of blankets, John just as happy around him.

They soon after developed a similar nightly routine for the remainder of Sherlock's illness. The two would lie, often silently, content in the other's company, until they both drifted into unconsciousness and awoke the next morning in the same position. It became normal, and even after Sherlock was back to full health, they continued the routine, minus the blankets, as neither voiced a reason to stop.


End file.
